


Mismatched

by Neleothesze



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending, Mild Smut, Minor Descent Spoilers, Minor Trespasser Spoilers, Or Is he?, POV Solas, Romance, RuthlessManipulator!Solas, Size Kink, Sorry for Cadash's Potty Mouth, Swearing, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-04-22 22:35:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 19,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4853114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neleothesze/pseuds/Neleothesze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malika Cadash has a healthy sense of self-preservation. And before the massive clusterfuck that was the Conclave job, it served her pretty well.</p><p>So <i>maybe</i> her self-preservation took a little battering when she decided she'd help the crazy humans close the hole in the sky... <b>and</b> a little more when she said, sure, why not mess with the Tevinter magister in possession of time-travel hocus-pocus... <b>and</b> a little more when she propositioned the angry, incredibly hot elf she got stuck with in the cave-in... <i>who turned out to be an ancient elven god...</i></p><p>But hey, at least the sex is fantastic. She bet Solas' dreams never showed him anything like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Quick Disclaimer:** This little story shouldn't be taken too seriously. (Even though hints of plot have snuck their way in, it should still count as just a short, light read with bits of romance, smatters of smut and a happily ever after of some sort.) :)  
>  **Regarding DLC Content** : Minor **_Trespasser ___**spoilers might be scattered throughout the story, likewise with ** _Descent_** ones.

**Prologue**

The moss is soft under her calloused fingers and Malika fists her hands even deeper, desperate for some purchase. A bead of sweat rolls down her cheek, tingling as it trails across near-feverish skin.

"Y-you-" she starts but forgets her complaint an instant later when a forceful push brings him even deeper inside her.

"Hush now, little Malika." her lover croons, knowing full well that her complaints are mostly for show now - not that she struggled all that hard in the first place (if the elf had anything godly about him, it would be his good looks and she'd always been a sucker for a pretty face).

Her heavy breasts bounce with every thrust, hardened nubs rubbing against the fragrant moss and she's half out of her mind with pleasure by the time he asks his first question. But this is a game she'd learnt to play when she was just a tiny, wide-eyed runner for the Carta and the fact that he can't use any fancy magic tricks (and hadn't her House made a pretty copper from her outrageous magical resistance) means she can damn well lie and lie and- oh, by the Ancestors, he's good.

And then he's huffing a laugh while peppering her neck with kisses. She said that aloud, hadn't she?

"You flatter me." he whispers and she can almost taste the smugness in each word. But then again, why should she care. He's probably gotten at least this much by dozens of women before... nah, ancient elven god nonsense... make that hundreds.

And fuck, now he's slowed to a crawl and he's making her arch her back for each stroke. Just when she was so close... Sadist. Bet none of this got passed down Scout Lavellan's tales of his Creators. She briefly wonders whether Solas ever witnessed something like this in the Fade but her lover drives the ensuing laughter out of her with two deep, punishing strokes.

"None of that now, little one, you'll hurt my pride." he cautions, fingers digging into her hips for more than purchase.

"Then move, damn you." she barks and she can feel him bristle. Yeah, yeah, who is she to order a God. She knows the lines by heart with how often he said them those first few days.

But he won't refuse her now. He's close, she can tell. For one, she almost can't feel her hips with how hard he's gripping them (and they'd already been bruised from their last round of 'sexy, reluctant captive interrogated by the handsome, deviant captor') and he's switched to hissing a long stream of Elvhen that's probably just curses and variations on the whole 'you like this, don't you, you filthy little slut'-thing most of her other lovers had going. Crafty Carta movers or all-powerful elven mages, s'all the same. She doesn't need to know the language to guess the intent.

Yeah, she thinks, this thing here... whatever it is, it's pretty simple. They got tired of beating each-other up... and they're both obviously far too curious for their own good. He'd probably never fucked a dwarf before, she'd definitely never been fucked by an ancient elf. They have a solid excuse too: seducing information out of the other. 

Oh, Malika doesn't plan on telling him why she bears the mark of an elf who, apparently, has been a thorn in his and his buddies' side for centuries now... and her lover's shared only some vague, useless gossip about the aforesaid buddies (the blighted elven pantheon, if he's to be believed). Aside from that however, their little arrangement seems to be working fairly well. She thinks she might almost miss it when she finally manages to get back to her own time (failure isn't something that even crosses her mind).

"I want to hear your voice, Malika..." he rasps but she's never done well with orders and can't help but snap back "Ancestors" even when it earns her a sharp rap on her rear.

"My name, woman, say it!" he demands again and even though she's never held with that sort of sappy nonsense, he's still the best damn lay she's ever had so what harm would it do to indulge him..

"June!" she finally screams as her muscles clench against his length... It's only the start of the night.

* * *

**~oOo~**

* * *

Solas' heart skips a beat when the magister's magic latches onto the Herald and she vanishes... and clenches painfully when he casts his senses and can't feel his Mark anywhere.

Is this it? Is he to fail at every endeavor? Has he doomed the world once again by encouraging the Herald to seek the mages' aid? To free them from Tevinter's slavery?

But there isn't enough time for the guilt to settle, to carve yet another notch into the bleeding mess of his heart, before she's there again!

The bearer of his precious Mark. Clothes all askew and looking a little worse for wear, but alive and laughing and... He quickly withdraws the tendril of magic he'd sent to diagnose her injuries.

"Yeah, _argh lath mah_ right back atcha. I'm gonna miss you, you old elf." Malika is saying, mangling his language something terrible but that is a peripheral concern.

His eyes narrow. Were he the beast the world portrays him as, his fur would surely be bristling.

That craftsmanship... that magical signature... Just why does she bear a courting gift recently forged from June's own magic?!


	2. Chapter 2

**Solas, Some Six Months Earlier**

There are always men ready to profit from another’s misery and the human Conclave had attracted more than its fair share of morally-bankrupt opportunists enticed by the idea of making easy money from the Templars’ cravings and the mages’ desperation... scavengers circling the rotting corpse of a system that had yet to acknowledge its own death.  
  
And there had been plenty of worse people his power could have latched onto, Solas supposes, but the dwarf doesn’t make it easy to focus on such notions.

She is a rude, foul-mouthed, inconsistent, vexing creature whose careless words always succeed in unsettling him where all the carefully crafted insults the others throw his way fall short.

“The way I figure it, Solas” the Herald’s saying around a bite of venison, nodding her head as though to emphasise the gravity of the knowledge she’s about to impart “this is all your fault.”

They have only just settled around the fire, the six of them - Seeker, storyteller, spy, rebel, him and her. It is a small, sputtering fire in the middle of a miserable, makeshift encampment, cobbled together from cloaks and blankets and the one tent to have survived the mudslide.

“I am flattered that you believe me capable of aiming and directing the forces of nature to such an extent, Herald.” he snips back “but sadly, my powers are not quite as great as that.”

He is cold, tired, his body bruised and magic exhausted and perhaps his words come out more sharply than intended but the little woman doesn’t take any offense. Instead, she barks a short, grating laugh.

“Nah, I didn’t mean the blasted storm. I meant this” she explains, waving the hand bearing his Mark. “The whole Herald of Andraste thing.”

His heart skips a beat but the spy and the storyteller are watching so he forces himself to relax, to look at her in confusion.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yeah. Dunno if you remember but back before the whole Temple blew up, me and Lantos were there at the tavern. In Haven. Well… drinks were had and we might’ve been getting a bit rowdy...”

His eyes narrow as he remembers the particulars of that evening.

“Did you... throw a mug at my head?”

“Well… I was dared and…”

“Five times?!”

“I kept missing… Drunk or not, t'was a matter of professional pride.”

He’s so angry he’s speechless. The others are trying to stifle their chuckles, all except Sera who is howling with laughter.

“Of course Lantos had to jinx it then. Kept insistin’ I should go over and apologize but nah, I knew better, so I just downed my drink and told him… I told ‘im _‘Got a job to finish mate, got no time for none of that. Pissin’ off some peniless knife-ear refugee'_ \- sorry Solas - _'even if it comes back to bite me in the ass, what’s the worse that could happen?’_ ”

“Oh, Growly, that’s like asking for trouble.” Varric admonishes.

“Thanks, Varric. I know that! Just sayin’... the way I see it, I’ve done plenty of bad things in my life but the one time I mess a little-”

“You. Threw. Five. Mugs” Solas interrupts and if his voice were any chillier, it could possibly freeze the raindrops as they fall.

“Pick-pocketing elves, never stubbed a toe." she continues, dismissing his complaint with a careless wave "Owl jobs and shakedowns near the Allienage, not even a hiccup… But mess with one elven mage who's got an in with spirits… **boom**! Sure you don't remember siccing some spirit of... of Karma or something on me? Now'd be the time to confess.”

"Oh, for the... There's no such thing as a spirit of Karma!"

She hums as she takes another bite of the roast, looking entirely unconvinced. "Seems like there's a spirit of pretty much everything else." she mumbles "And I dunno, Solas, but I'm a lucky gal - always have been - and the start of this streak of bad luck is pretty damn suspicious."

A idle finding manages to break through his anger. She looks...

“You’re actually serious.” he blurts out, surprised.

“Yep. The way I see it, all this: divine retribution on the mage’s behalf. So you better watch where you plan on puttin’ that rashvine nettle Sera, lest Solas’ spirits smite you.”

“Pff... Really, Herald?”

“ **Mages** , Sera. Look at this hand, just look at it. He's set on denying it but d'you really wanna see if Solas’ got an in with some sort of higher Fade power?”

“Get real. I mean His Royal Elfyness' a bit of an arse but y-you don’t really think he’d call a demon-”

“I dunno... Stone take me if I hadn't been the luckiest dwarf I knew. And where's all that luck now? They were just five mugs, Sera. That nettle there is blood poisoning waiting to happen.”

“You’re no fun. **No** fun!” Sera complains, but she’s already had a laugh at his expense this eve - and she’s the superstitious sort to boot - so, after a moment’s indecision, the fresh (and decidedly dangerous) rashvine nettle is thrown outside.

There is a hint of smugness in the small smile curling the corner of the Herald’s generous mouth. Had she planned all that? She had, hadn’t she. Just to prevent Sera’s cruel prank without having to order the other woman - not when such orders would have likely only earned her a rude comment and been promptly ignored.

When he catches her gaze, he’s rewarded with a wink and a wide, self-satisfied grin. She is a rude, foul-mouthed, inconsistent, vexing creature… but he finds himself, very reluctantly, impressed.


	3. Chapter 3

  
That is only the first of many random acts of kindness she bestows upon him, each of them odd and unexpected.

The Herald is not by nature generous, sociable or kind. (Whether this is an innate flaw or whether her current personality has been forged by her criminal lifestyle, he cannot guess.)

She doesn’t shower her allies in gifts, all favors done are favors owed and if she ever buys her companions a round at the tavern, she expects the next one to be paid by someone else.

But when one of Varric’s stray bolts rips straight through his coat’s fur collar she leaves camp for the whole afternoon, at last returning with three fat fennec pelts and a simple _‘Just in case you wanted to fix that or, fuck, what do I know’_.

His little bookcase is filled with rare tomes the Herald had put aside for his perusal and he spies her paying one of the villagers to keep a sizable pile of wood next to his cabin.

When questioned, she waves him off with a careless _‘Can’t have you freezing here, the man needed the money and I ain’t a charity.’_ which would have been perfectly believable, had she not gifted him with a pair of enchanted silver rings just two weeks past.

At last, his curiosity can stand no more of this and he confronts her.

“Look, Solas.” she says, scratching her cheek in embarrassment. “Most everyone here... they’re easy to read, easy to please. Ha-ha. Just my luck then that you’re not, eh? I… I’m a dwarf. I get what you’re saying about the Fade but I can’t see any of it so it’s like fairy tales, yeah? Floating cities, castles in the clouds, that’s not for me.”

They’ve retired to his cabin for some privacy and she’s already seated herself in front of the fire. She looks small and fragile in the middle of the great bear pelt, a dangerous illusion. The flames cast shadows in all the ~~right~~ wrong places, emphasizing her voluptuous figure. He can’t stop his eyes from trailing over the curve of her buttocks and he tells himself that it’s only morbid curiosity that makes him imagine how his straining sex would fit into her tiny body if he were to take her on that very pelt.

He frowns and forcefully reigns in his errant thoughts, shifting to hide his body’s responses. The whole thing is ridiculous and he’s going to miss her answer to the question that’s been plaguing him for almost a month now.

“—But you’re… you’re something else. When you talk to me about your adventures you make me feel like you could live in a castle in the clouds and still hang out with me down here, easy. There’s just… You’ve this way of talking to people when really you want to, Solas, like you could make all the distance in the world, all the hurdles mean nothing.”

The Herald’s words are barely more than whispers now, short-lived shadows of thought. Her vocabulary is basic and the common tongue doesn’t lend itself to figurative expressions the way Elvhen does but the sentiment carries through and he finds himself… oddly touched.

“Out of all of House Cadash magic always bothered _me_ the least. Took me a good two years longer than every other kid to learn my way around a bow and even now I still can’t punch for shit but the strongest spell feels like a tickle.” Her fingers trace over her marked palm but the magic is dormant, hidden from sight.

“But this foreign magic… sometimes I feel like my body’s just a stone carved pitcher filled with molten lyrium, singing sort of, burning, churning inside but bottled up and held fast. And your touch calms the song, d’you know that?” she confesses.

“I did not.” he admits. If true, it is certainly an intriguing development but her words have uncovered a more immediate concern. “Have you informed your companions of the Mark’s-”

“Nah… Well, ‘s not like I want it going around. Besides, if you can do that with just a touch… well, I guess I just wanted to see how it would all play out in bed.”

He thinks he must have misheard her.

“Then... Those were... courting gifts?”

Malika rises to her feet, dusts her jacket and leaves him with just a slight, self-deprecating smile.

“Goodnight, fadewalker.”


	4. Chapter 4

He’s been assisting the Inquisition for fourteen weeks now and while the Spymistress has recalled some of her pets, he’s yet to find an opportunity to place his own agents. 

They have their standing orders regarding the Qunari and he does call for updates in the Fade but, with how often the Herald requests his presence on her errands, he’d have prefered having more eyes and ears inside the Inquisition. For now, it seems that he must be satisfied with his own observations, such as they are.

And it is not all bad; the missions the Herald takes him on are more than adequate for getting his magic and body back into shape - even if the woman’s battle plans make him cringe now and again... or outright ignore her directives...

It’s not something he’s proud of but it _has_ been a very long, long time since he was anything less than a commander and, at times, he _does_ slip up. Thankfully, mistakes are quickly ascribed to having led a reclusive, nomadic life _‘which must have left poor Solas incapable of following orders’_. (The rudeness of the comments - or, in Sera’s case, the crudeness - varies but the quicklings still have millennia to go before they can injure his pride.)

And thankfully, the Herald is ever so slowly learning how to lead, how to utilize her troops to their full potential.

This really shouldn’t please him as much as it does but he tells himself that it is only natural to hope for a competent force to stand against Corypheus, that observing ~~Malika~~ the Herald’s personal growth is only something to pass the time…

He’d been ~~flattered~~ surprised, of course, to learn of her interest but he has no time and effort to spare for even a casual affair and certainly not with a child of the stone. So if his eyes linger too long on her lips when she speaks, if his gaze falls down to her ample breasts from time to time, if he sometimes imagines taking her up on her offer… they’re just indifferent looks and idle thoughts.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Cadash, Two Months Before the Whole Redcliffe Fiasco**

It’s taken her this long to figure out that Solas is trying to kill her... drive her to an early grave with his fickle, frustrating behavior.

Most of the time he acts all prim and proper, distantly polite or reluctantly friendly as if every metaphorical inch between them is a barrier he must carefully preserve lest some blasted calamity occur. And then, at other times, she catches him watching her intently. Confusion, curiosity and a dispassionate darkness war for dominance in those blighted lingering stares, as though she's some strange, singular thing… possibly valuable, most likely dangerous… and certainly to be kept at a distance.

It sets her teeth on edge, that look. It reminds her of the nobles the Carta supplies sometimes, not those who see the world terms of _'us'_ and _'them'_ , but the uglier sort, who see _'people'_ and _'things'_ , reminds her of little boys tying a nug’s paws together to watch it squirm.

It’s the same look Leliana gets sometimes... when someone is an asset, a chess piece on her mental board and Malika’d feel right entitled to punch ‘im if that’d be the only way he ever looked at her but no, that’s when the madness comes in.

‘Cause that cold stare so often softens into fond amusement, surprise or pride that she can’t even tell whether she’s worth only just dirt to him or if the fadewalker simply finds the waking world so very baffling.

And Stone take him but she wants it to be the second option, wants it so much it makes her skin itch and the mark’s magic churn like river rapids in her veins. But she’ll be damned if she suffers her newest obsession being a narrow-minded prick.

So she lets him talk about his travels and the Fade, the books he’s read and wonders he’s seen and for every one of his stories, she shares one of her own. She tells him of her childhood in Ostwick, of the rare artifacts they helped smuggle, the clever mechanisms they developed or the way their crafts differ from Orzammar’s.

At first he bears them grudgingly; it’s obvious he doesn’t think much of non-magical crafts and he’s both ignorant of and uninterested in her people’s technological advancements.

But it only takes her snapping once. “Oh, Great Ancestors, Solas! It’s always _‘now’_ versus _‘then’_ with you. Fuck. I get that the Fade showed you all the ways in which the elves had it better in ancient times, but us dwarva are still the same. We lost our empire just as surely as the elves lost their Artalan-”

“Arlathan, though technically, Elvhenan was the empire.” he’s quick to correct her.

“Elvhenan, right, but ancient dwarven paragons, Orzammar deshyrs or surface merchants, the _people_ … we’re still the same. Shouldn’t that count for something?!”

“Your people too, have lost so much. The durgen’len as they are today—” he starts but then, a thought seems to occur to him and he suddenly stops and frowns.

It’s the first time she’s seen him so absorbed, brows furrowed and lips slightly parted. “Of course with the Titans’ demise… but nothing _the Veil_ did… Her fault not m—” half of the things he mumbles are in Elvhen and the other half don’t make any sense and but it seems like he’s had some sort of epiphany. “Of course it couldn’t ever be _one_ thing!” ...but he doesn’t seem all that happy about it.

One moment he’s lounging in his armchair and the other he’s pacing the length of the cabin, still muttering angrily in Elvhen. At length, he stops before her “You have given me much to think about, Herald. I won’t keep you further.” he says, before hustling her out the door.

She wonders what all that’s about… But he listens raptly from then on, always questioning, picking apart her words as though he’s tallying their worth on some inner board. It’s still very unnerving, but at least it makes her feel like a person now, and less like a thing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Cadash, A Week Before the Redcliffe Disaster**

It’s become standard procedure to have Leliana’s men comb an area before Malika shows her face. If she’d been wary of nughumpers out to foul a deal before, it’s nothing to the paranoia growing with every unsuccessful assassination or kidnapping attempt.

Oh, she’s known humans took their religion seriously, what with the reach of the Chantry, its army of pet mage-hunters and dungeons full of mages. For better or worse, the Chantry and the Carta have a profitable arrangement going on and House Cadash always treats a major client with the care, respect - and, most importantly, the watchfulness and healthy suspicion - their deserve.

But the Conclave disaster’s added a fucking new string to the weave. She’s had Chantry sisters pray for her soul while they take the contraband, Templars look down on her, even when she’s the one handling their fix. She can handle contempt. But demons are spilling into the world and suddenly the dull, dismissive gazes get sharp and hungry.

It’s this mix of awe, resentment and hate that make her jaw lock and fingers itch for some knives, reverence twisted into some sick fucking belief. It's made things unpredictable and if she could dream, Malika thinks she’d dream of faithful Andrastians, carving her up for a single bite of second-hand divinity. The whole world feels like it’s slowly going insane.

As months go by and word of her being the blighted Herald of Andraste spreads, urchins become bait for a bandit traps, meetings with seemingly desperate farmers become setups for ambushes, the rogue mages and Templars strewn across the Fereldan countryside like so much nug shit grow rabid at the sight of Inquisition forces (and more so its dwarven Herald) and she’s just about done with it all.

When one of Leliana’s agents reports that the Redcliffe mages have sold themselves to a Tevinter magister, she can’t even muster the energy to feel surprised.

But giving the Vints some hundred odd mages isn’t something that’s going to happen, not when her magical resistance makes wielding the Mark’s power even more difficult than Solas had first theorized.

She needs those mages and if she can get them for the cheap price of stabbing someone in the back, it’s not even a question of if, but rather when she’s going to do it. That she gets to free some poor sods from slavery is just the icing on an already very tempting cake.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Redcliffe... and we've almost come full circle with where the prologue leaves off. :)

She’s terrible company.

They’re in his quarters, as they often are in the evenings, sharing idle talk and a glass of West Hill brandy. Unlike most eves though, it feels odd and forced. Leaning against his rickety table, she squirms, trying to hide a tension that’s been building for days, weeks or months while he paces in front of the fireplace.

She’s asked him a question but can’t even focus on the reply.

Her eyes dart around the room, hone in on books and knick-knacks she’s seen a hundred times, linger on the play of light and shadow near the iron sconces and she can barely hear his voice, let alone put meaning to his words.

She much sooner notices the way his long fingers twitch in aborted movement, nostrils flaring when he glances her way, brows drawn in a minute frown. She gets caught up in visions of what those fingers would feel like against her skin, stroking lightly or grasping roughly - ‘both, please’ comes the unbidden thought. Her own answers, when she manages more than a vague humm or grunt are even more short-tempered than usual.

What a mess, she thinks, cursing herself for seeking his counsel when she’s in no state to receive it. They’re leaving for Redcliffe at dawn and, instead of settling things, this meeting’s only made them worse.

A gusty sigh, too loud in the sudden silence. Of course he’s stopped talking and she hasn’t even noticed, she silently curses, dipping her head to hide a grimace. She must look like an idiot, standing there with her head bowed, arms crossed and fidgeting but she’d rather he question her sudden defensiveness, than see her nipples strain against the thin woolen shirt.

She can already imagine that smugness would suit those fine, sculpted features far too well but, blast it all, he hasn’t earned it yet ‘cause if it were only arousal, she’d have taken care of it by now, with or without his help. But too many things require her attention nowadays, there’re just too many issues and responsibilities to juggle and she knows she’s nearing a break point.

No, she’s not good company at all. Some wide-eyed youth might’ve wondered why _he_ was putting up with it, but he’s been stringing her along for weeks now and, like a glutton for punishment, she keeps coming back.

Intellectually, she can’t even fault him for it, she’s left herself wide open when she all but admitted to wanting to bed him - what sort of fool would let an opportunity like that slip by. She hasn’t figured out his game yet (unlike Bull or Leliana, he has very little to gain by trying to influence her choices) but she’s aware that if she’s noticed this much, in the state she’s in, there’s probably even more slipping right under her nose.

Physically, she’s a hot mess of stress, anxiety and lust and she’s already decided that before the Magister’s corpse cools she’s going to use the elf to relieve whichever one he chooses.

Looking at him now, she dearly hopes its the last option. She’s tried a Circle mage a week ago, but it just wasn’t the same. Maybe because it was a human, Stone knows, but the Mark didn’t sing and her blood didn’t pound even half as much as it does when the elf just traces her skin with his fingertips to seal a cut.

* * *

**~oOo~**

* * *

When the hour of the meeting arrives, she feels like just a passenger in her own body, a wisp of concentration in an unholy storm of impatience, nervousness and dread.

She tips her hand too soon. Instead of a clean kill, the magister has time to react, far too much time. She's set out to trap him and merely springs his own trap.

Oh, she doesn’t catch much of his villainous monologue but Pavus had warned her that his former mentor was dabbling in time magic - and blessed Stone, mages never knew when to stop, did they?

After gingerly picking herself up from where the magic’s thrown her, she starts exploring and her smile grows with every corner turned in the strange, labyrinthine cavern. There aren’t any Venatori here, no bandits, rebel mages, Templars, cultists, smugglers or spies. No wretched Inquisition and no one’s fate resting in her hands.

She’d been too cocky, she thinks, too confident in her magical resistance but still, winding up in a forge of sorts, the likes of which she’s never seen before, is as close as she can get to catching a break.  

The owner of said marvel is, of course, the first begging to differ.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always imagined that while the pantheon/Evanuris had servants and slaves, they must've also kept _some_ hidey-holes known only to themselves where they could perfect their craft (...or commit all manner of nefarious deeds) without anyone being the wiser.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A not so friendly first meeting...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fighting writer's block one word at a time... *le sigh*

**Millennia Before the Conclave Explosion, Inside a Complex Cavern System**

“Why don’t you make it easy on yourself, abomination, and give in! All paths to victory are barred to you, you cannot win against a god!” The deep, thunderous growl can, marginally, pass for the trade tongue, though the declensions seem almost randomly assigned, the stress falls on entirely the wrong syllables and nearly every verb is incomprehensible.

She’d love to mock him if she weren’t too busy freeing her foot from under the boulders while also, somehow, parrying the other’s rapid hammer strikes. Dents and chips pockmark her trusty swords, the cross-guards are a mangled mess and both points blunted from trying to pierce the mage’s enchanted mail.

“Fuck that! Fat chance, you mad elf!” Her wrists ache from the pressure he’s exerting on the blades but its nothing to the near-painful prickling of the bastard’s magic and even though he’s been throwing _that_ around like nug farts, he’s looking not nearly tired enough for her taste.

She digs her fingers in the ground for purchase, steel screeching as it meets a metal hatch, and aims a vicious kick at the already crumbling wall. It merely trembles as the cracks spread outwards, but the deep rumble of shifting earth heralds her success. Panting, she spins around in time to dodge a frost spell, feels its chill as it passes her cheek. A ruse, he knew she'd move aside, but useless in the end. There's no reinforcing that cave wall, not when a collumn's already broken under the strain.

Ducking and dodging to avoid the falling boulders, she chucks a handful of dust at his face. But he's gotten wise to some of her tricks. The dirt glows against his barrier and she has only an instant to shield her eyes against the falling sparks.

A fire-based barrier? Was there anything this mage couldn’t do? If she could spare even a thimble of concentration to worry about it, she would. But she’s never felt so outmatched; his powerful spells leave her short of breath and trembling, make her bones ache without touching skin - but she’ll take that over becoming a smear any day.

“Argh!! Why am I suddenly such a magnet for crazy!” Either the scream or her rude words make him draw back in offended pride and she takes the opportunity to tackle him. They grapple across the cavern floor, punching and kicking, her mark crackling angrily every time the elf attempts a cast. “It’s the mark, isn’t it! It’s all anyone seems to care about these days. What, you wanna cut my hand off too? Maybe put the Hand of the Herald on display?”

“Herald? Hmph! A beast more like… and I’ve no care for what Fen’Harel spawns in his free time but you _**will** _ tell me how he knew to send you here! What is he planning? What's he looking for?”

“Fen’Harel? Never heard of ‘im.”

“Ha! You’d lie to my face when his magic covers yours so completely?!”

“Everyone knows dwarva don’t have magic, stupid!”

“A child of the stone? _**You**_?! You’re but an empty husk, a void—”

“The only void here’s gonna be the place your balls were, if you don’t get that elbow off my boobs right now!” she snarls “You barely speak the language, how many real dwarva have you even met?” A lucky hit makes him double over and she clumsily tosses another grenade and rolls behind a pillar. This explosion is even larger than the last but the muffled steps behind the hail of stone tell her he’s managed to evade the deadly blast once more. Lightning arcs across her skin, followed by a gust of fire so hot its flames burn blue.

“Argh! Shit! Piss! That fucking nug-humper!” she screams, trying to put out the flames licking on the end of her braid. Another tunnel caved in and it hasn’t slowed him at all. Damn it! Between the elf’s magic and her own mines and grenades, the two exits she’s found so far have collapsed before she could make a run for it (though nothing had enraged the prissy mage as much as trashing his private quarters - and really, who howls like that over one fucking mirror).

She gets it, she’s an intruder in his super-secret safe house, but if the madman doesn’t stop soon, she swears she’s gonna bury both of them alive.


	9. Chapter 9

She doesn't know when or why he calls a truce. By now, she's running on fumes, her body just a vessel for sheer stubbornness and grit. Perhaps he holds out hope that kindness will loosen her tongue where enmity has not... Perhaps it's just a ploy to have her drop her guard... She can't divine his motives and is in no position to refuse his apparent good will.

The hostilities cease.

She’d like to keep watch but her knees tremble and the cavern floor makes an irresistible seat; her eyelids grow weighty… and she sleeps.

* * *

**~oOo~**

* * *

**Some Eight Weeks Later**

She presses against his back as he works, chin resting against his fleecy high collar, calloused palms dragging on the lambswool sleeves, up and down, up and down. Every so often, short, measured flares of ice-blue fire burst from his fingertips, heating another golden disk. Rows upon rows of fluid, complex runes, the likes of which she’s never seen before, are forged into the surface, a tale of will and intent, as though he’s teaching the molten metal _‘this is what you are and this is what you must accomplish’_.

Keeping to the rhythm of the hammer blows, she hums. It’s nothing much, an old, bawdy tavern song about long ears and longer staves - the only tune she can carry without sounding like a dying nug but also, yes, decidedly appropriate. It’s her way of keeping calm - and keeping busy too - while June is fiddling with yet another prototype (hopefully one that won’t explode on contact with the Mark’s magic as all the others had).

It’s not enough to make the metal learn, it seems, not when the Mark won’t do the same - contrary, willful thing that it is.

Eyes closed, she breathes in deeply. Slowly. Committing to memory that unique scent that says _‘him’_ : arbor blessing, elderberry; sulfur and smoke, like the first fires of a forge lit in some foreign wilds. _June._ Unbidden, her lips twitch upwards in a slow, lazy smile. It’s been a long time since she’s felt so carefree. Having _him_ to thank for, when they’d been foes not two months past... Admittedly, they’ve worked out a great many frustrations in the eight weeks she’s been here - on each-other, on the farthest depths of June’s underground labyrinth, on the beings or demons the mage can summon when he tries. Oh, that man, he’s had a veritable mountain of issues to work though... _and so had she_... but sex is sex and while he still refuses to see her as a dwarf, he certainly thinks her pretty enough for a romp or six each day. And well, at this point, even the sex might be a little more than that. There are _some_ sort budding feelings on his part, tolerance certainly… even an elf-god’s brand of fondness perhaps.

Whatever this is, or however long it lasts, it’s obviously something they’ve both needed. A short break from the chaos of their daily lives… perhaps just enough time to put things into perspective. Trapping them in a cave, miles below the Frozen Sea floor, might be the best thing she’s ever done. She breathes a short, soundless laugh. Mind, not the smartest one, but how was she to know the elves used mirrors of all things, to travel between places. At least her cursed luck has dropped her near a master craftsman. Smiling, she presses a wet kiss to his cheek.

“Not now, Malika.” comes the expected grunt; sharp and annoyed, certainly, but he hasn’t even bothered looking up. She laughs and goes back to watching him teach metal how to move through time. There might be some budding feelings on his part, but on hers too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At some point I might write a companion piece with 'The Missing Eight Weeks' but for the moment I feel like, if I'm going to spend time developing June & the Inquisitor's romance, I'll never let them go. :) And then ofc the Dread Wolf's gonna open the mirrors to free the Evanuris, and Cadash's gonna be right there with him - for June at least -, and fuck the rest of the world instead of... you know... _**not**_. (And without the veil the Titans wake up instead of merely rumbling the earth a bit, so the dwarves get sparkly fingers too, which puts the Lady Inquisitor and June on somewhat more equal footing... and they have hot, steamy sex while the elven pantheon try to retake over the world. _The End._ ...Canon-Divergence of a Canon-Divergence. )  
> ...Seeing as the whole story's already planned out - all 28 chapters of it - I _really_ hope I can stick to Solas/Cadash as the final pairing. XD


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June and Cadash say goodbye... in style.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to apologize in advance for the quality of the smut. I've still got much to learn about the _'how'_ , _'how often'_ and _'how long'_...  
>  Off to hide in a corner now...

Heavy and grand, the lariat chain settles on her shoulders like a vow. It steals her breath to see the end result of June’s labor; garnets and agates ring each of sixty-seven disks like tiny, glimmering crowns and at the center - blood-bound and lyrium-etched - glyphs shift across the surface of the polished gold, faint and unclear, as though obscured by the very magic that binds them. If there’s a pattern to the symbols, it’s something only its creator can discern, but the string’s song is loud in her ears. It speaks of _luck_ and _home_ and _Self_. Softer, it whispers of June, _his_ heart and Self. _Why did he‒ ?_

Her lips quiver as his fingers start tracing the skin around the weighty chain. His eyes catch hers and there’s a question there, it seems, one they’ve been dancing around for weeks. But it’s not something he’ll lower himself to ask ...and not something she’s ready to answer.

Slowly, his gaze drops to her lips. He’s unusually hesitant today and she’s had just about enough of this nonsense. Her hands fist into the rust-red samite and she tugs harshly, once, twice, until he finally deigns to bend down and capture her lips in a kiss.

“Thank you.” she grumbles before he steals her breath, lips rubbing harshly as the tongues touch. With a vexed grunt he drops to his knees before her - and he’s half a head taller still - but at least she can embrace him this way, dig her nails into the silk when he nips at her lips, trail shaking fingers over his back to feel those hard muscles tense. His height gives him power, of a sort, and yet here he is, relinquishing it for a taste of her touch.

A happy laugh stirs in her heart and she abandons his mouth to press kisses against his smooth cheek, a short, hurried line of silent _‘I want this. I want you.’_ s leading to his long, narrow ears. He mutters something, an encouragement perhaps, but he’s slipped into Elvhen so she can only guess at the meaning. So long as he’s not stopping her, she’ll take it all to mean whatever she wants it to. She smirks anyway and her tongue leaves a slick, chilly trail on the edge of his ear, peppered with kisses and bites that tear loud, filthy groans from June. A short, surprised hum escapes her when his hands snake under the leather leggings, yanking them to her knees as he turns her around.

“Bend.” he orders and when did he manage to‒ The thought trails off as he pushes inside her, slowly at first, still mindful of his greater size. Having welcomed him for weeks has made it somewhat easier but he’s still a giant of an elf and she’s still just a little dwarf and, once again, her wet heat re-learns how to stretch around his rigid flesh. They’re both panting by the time she can take him no further and she can’t help but moan when his hand comes to grip the rest of his shaft, fingers rubbing against her damp petals, darting and dancing around the hidden bud. Another hand seizes a heavy breast and though the leather binds it tightly, echoes of his touch do reach the tender crest and she gasps.

“Wait.” he hisses - or perhaps she does - but one of them is moving in short, sudden starts. And, oh! It’s her... Well, she certainly won’t stop then, comes an idle thought, the last for several minutes. She cants her hips just so and “Blessed Stone!” breathing becomes an effort... until there’s nothing but the rhythmic thrust of flesh on flesh and the sweet, aching clench inside her, so much, almost too much… then blinding, pulsing ecstasy, a feeling of heat bursting inside her… and she can breathe again.

Their breaths are loud and shaky as he helps her up, fixes her smalls and leggings both. His hand hovers at the apex of her thighs, a secret smile playing on his lips, as though he senses what she does, his seed, ever so slowly dripping from her center... allowed to go no further than the borders of her flesh.

“You will send word to me as soon as you arrive.” he reminds her and she nods briefly. The heavy chain has started glowing. _'Is this it?’_

“ _Ar lath ma, Malika. Dareth shiral._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Behind the Scenes** : As a courting gift, June gives the Herald a bit of himself. Forged with lyrium and traces of his blood, sixty-seven golden disks, a number which _“merges analytical intelligence and creativity.”_ Garnets and agates to stand for overcoming difficulties, for luck and protection, but also for: self-confidence, logical thinking and creativity. With the same piece he’s crafted to send her home, he’s also saying _‘this is who I am. See me.’_ Now whether he does this intentionally or not… who can tell.  
>  Also… remember the prologue… Malika doesn’t know much about elven history, does she? Even less about the language... doesn't even know what _‘ar lath ma’_ means. Poor June, poor Herald. :(  
>  On the bright side, it's **back to the future** up next! :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta and I've only looked this over once, so please excuse any mistakes.

She can’t even begin to understand the complexities of time travel but so far June’s crazy-sounding theory is actually holding water. He’d speculated that her displacement into an alternate timeline _could_ be corrected, given enough magical power and a connection to the original timeline. With the power supplied by the elf-god himself and the Mark used as a connection, she hurtles forward in time, on a crooked path that’s meant to cross her own history instead of a thousand other Malikas and a thousand other Heralds. It’s as awful as it is mind-boggling and she’s glad she doesn’t have to _walk_ there because her muscles have locked in terror from the get go.

Drawn to the most distant iteration of its counterpart, the one an instant before she disappeared, the Mark pulls her along like a puppet on a string, with only June’s gift to act as a barrier against the weight of history.

Land shifts around her, brooks become streams become rivers, elves make way for humans, wars are fought, castles rise and then crumble. The magnitude of June’s feat of magic begins to sink in… He let me go with just a promise, Malika thinks and shivers.

Redcliffe Castle is built. Darkspawn come. Demons. Venatori… And then she drops to the floor.

The Mark grows silent. Slowly, she reaches out to pat the floor. The ornate silk carpet sags slightly, soft yet solid, and she bursts out laughing. _He did it, he actually did it._

“Herald!” she hears Cassandra cry out. “Are you alright?”

“Andraste’s ass, Growly! What happened?” That’s Varric, she thinks, helpfully voicing the question on everyone’s mind. There’s a hysterical note to her laugh, sharp and jarring. _‘I’m alive’_ she wants to scream. _‘June… I’m alive.’_

“Yeah, _argh lath mah_ right back atcha. I'm gonna miss you, you old elf.” she whispers instead, trying to focus on the future… the present… whatever _‘now’_ is. Her eyes pass over her companions and settle on the Magister and she can feel her face twist into an ugly sneer.

 _ **"You!”**_ The single word is a curse and her throwing knives fly before she can think better of it, lodging into the startled mage’s chest. He blinks owlishly and topples forward, a pool of blood growing beneath him even as Dorian and his friend rush forward. Cries of “Father!” and “Gereon!” ring out but she’s no longer paying attention.

“Lady Fiona, you and your fellow mages you will aid the Inquisition in closing the Breach.” she commands, turning to face the Grand Enchanter. “You _**will** _ perform this duty. When that's done, the mages will be free to leave ...or welcome to stay.”

“Herald… we… We will accept your offer.” Fiona replies and while it looks as though there’s more she’d say, Malika has other, more pressing concerns.

“We'll talk more in Haven, Grand Enchanter. Good day." Restless, she paces the length of the grand hall and, when the mages have all filed out and only her people still linger, she turns to the Seeker.

“I need elves, Cassandra. Scholars, historians, Dalish story-tellers.”

A brave elven scout who'd been clearing out the Venatori corpses - while eavesdropping, she silently adds - takes that moment to interrupt.

“Beg pardon, Your Worship, but I’m Dalish. Is there anything I can do to assist?” he asks, curiosity shining in his wide, hazel eyes.

“Perhaps.” she allows. It would've all gone back to Leliana anyway. “Tell me, agent, how exactly might one get in touch with your gods?”

“The Creators?!”

“What are you asking, Growly?” Varric chimes in, looking troubled.

“What do you think, Varric? The Vint’s little time-travel party trick succeeded.” she confesses, mouth curved in a dark smile with too many teeth. “If not for an elf-god’s kindness–”

“You’ve met one of the gods?!” the scout cuts in. He really is too nosy for his own good but she can hardly fault him. With her left hand she lifts the heavy chain, Mark sputtering angrily where it touches the gold. “Dear June’s work, soldier. And the only reason this Inquisition still _has_ a Herald…”

“Mythal preserve us! Your Worship’s met a god?!”

“Well, a man at least–” she starts but the scout is no longer listening. He’s dropped to a knee in front of her, head bowed.

“Your Worship.”

“Never mind that! Never mind that! I need a way to contact him. Summon him, if you’d like.”

“But, Your Worship… That isn't possible...” The scout looks pained, his words coming out in fits and starts. “The Dread Wolf sealed all the gods away.”

“Sealed? Dread Wolf?”

“The Bringer of Nightmares,” he whispers “Fen’Harel.”

The growl rips out of her, unbidden. With a vicious glare, she flexes her Marked hand, staring at the trapped magic still fighting weakly against the golden chain. “This Fen’Harel again.” she hisses “I see...”

Solas, who had stayed silent until now, makes his way to her side. It seems he too has questions. _Don’t they all? I’ll deal with them later_ , she promises herself.

“ _ **Again**_ , Your Worship?”

Startled, she turns to the scout who looks earnestly worried.

“I misspoke.” she says, trying to offer the elf an honest smile. “Might be more tired than I thought.... Thank you for your information, agent.” The trip _has_ taken a toll on her... She’s already said too much.

Their party is silent as they leave Redcliffe Castle - mindful of her feelings perhaps. It won’t last long, she knows. For them, too much has happened in an instant, most of it unbelievable and while it's been heretical enough to have a dwarf as the Herald of the Maker, what did that say about a dwarf who all but proclaimed that she consorts with pagan Dalish deities. _Not my best moment_ , she admits with a grimace. Still, only way left is to go forward and if the soldier's got the right of it, then anything sealed can be unsealed. She’s always shied away from hard work but it just can’t be helped this time. She’s got a date to keep with an elven god.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas' perspective on the political climate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appologize in advance... this is a drier read than usual. While Malika's carebox is pretty empty, Fen'Harel's on the other hand... ......so, it's like a time-skip, but with politics. ^_^

**Solas, Back In Haven**

The long, slow journey back to Haven has certainly helped the Herald regain some good judgement. At the very least, she has composed herself sufficiently that the thoughtless confessions of Redcliffe do not become a habit.

Indeed, she’s shown unexpected forethought in hiding her knowledge of the anchor’s origin, if that is truly what her casual _‘This Fen’Harel again… I see’_ implies. There have been no whispers of hostility among the Inquisition leaders as he is sure there must be, should the Commander or Seeker be given proof that Malika is not the Herald of their god.

With the Inquisition forces still waiting fearfully for the mage contingent to gather on their doorstep for a chance at sealing the Breach, a schism between the leaders would, at this point, be devastating for morale. At least the Herald has this much sense, to delay sharing her suspicions with her devout Andrastian advisers.

A shame the same cannot be said about her previous blunder. Word of the claims she’s made in Redcliffe has already spread, growing more outlandish with each retelling.

Though plenty remain skeptical, she _**is**_ the woman who walked out of the Fade bearing the mark of a god. Unsurprisingly, even among the believers, few are delighted by the idea of the Herald having the favor of an elven god.

The Ambassador and Spymistress have done their best to start rumors of their own, leaked whispers to reach the nobles’ ears that the Herald’s wild claims were all a ploy to secure more elven troops for the Inquisition. From his agents’ reports, most nobles were somewhat mollified that it should all be just a misstep in the Game but relationships between Andrastian fundamentalists and the Inquisition have chilled and the remaining Chantry officials have grown even more strident in their disparagement of the _'dwarven pretender'_ ; would damn her sight unseen, ignorant of the rare spirit who, though placed as the leader of growing power and adorned with the splendor of would-be gods, still sees herself no better than the common man.

What’s more, his agents have informed him that a small cult of former Dalish elves has sprung up in Orlais, fanatics who want to reclaim the relic of their people from unworthy shemlen hands. Thankfully, their numbers are few and their frenzied rhetoric has earned them few followers. Most of the elves have so far dismissed the rumor that the Herald of Andraste has _‘communed’_ with June. Rare are those who believe that the woman has the favor of two gods but their voices still ring powerfully in the din of skepticism and distrust.

To the best of his knowledge, there has been no word out of Orzammar but several outspoken scholars from the Free Marches have started speculating on what the Ancestors’ blessing might look like and whether or not the Herald may already have received it. Many have leaped to silence such theories - often in a violent, permanent manner - for if drawing the attention of _**one** _ god seems frightening to mortals, having them all in accord appears to breed hysteria.

And, whatever their original purpose, the Herald’s loud complaints that June was _'only just a man'_ have done nothing but elevate her further in the people’s eyes because, of course, who'd speak so casually of a god but another figure worthy of reverence.

Credulous children, all of them.

It certainly doesn’t help that none of the mages and scholars who have come to study June’s gift are able to disprove the Herald’s claims. For all that June had been a warmongering fool, his work would have been a masterpiece even at the height of the Elvhen Empire. Now, it is unlike anything seen in this age... and nothing but proving the Herald’s golden chain a bogus piece of jewelry would lessen the impact of her careless words but the exasperating woman outright refuses to lie about the value of June’s gift.

It seems to have become a talisman of sorts, for she touches it often enough when she is scared, angry or frustrated. What _**has** _ she gone though in the past? It eats at him, not knowing, and with the Herald flitting about the countryside with some of her other companions, he’s had no chance to ask.

The closest he's gotten to finding answers was when the Spymistress kindly requested his expertise in determining whether the chain could have any negative, long-term effects on the Herald’s health to which he had been forced to reply that no, it would not. 

In truth, it absorbed and dispelled any excess magical residue from the Mark before it could spread to the Herald’s system and corrupt cellular integrity. Seeing his magic so nonchalantly nullified by one of the Evanuris would never stop rankling, but the assurance that ~~Malika~~ the Herald wouldn’t die for bearing his Mark at least eased some of the guilt.

Regarding his unanswered questions though… her familiarity when speaking of the arrogant Elvhen, the man's own courting gift for ~~his~~  the bearer of his Mark... he _**must** _ find the right moment to speak in private.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Cadash have a little chat.

It’s she who finds him eight days later, lounging on the pier unseeing, his magic scattered, delighting in the feel of spring, of shy buds peeking from under fallen leaves and scraggly grass. He doesn’t dare to make the lakeside bloom (the part he plays doesn’t allow for it) but small and subtle blessings he can and will provide, a silent tribute paid to a far greater god than he.

Oh... She’s caught him in a melancholy mood. _'Perhaps her luck is turning back around'_ , he muses, frowning.

“Good afternoon, Herald. May I be of assistance?” Polite. Impersonal but never hostile. Never upset. He reminds himself that whatever hold he might’ve had on her before she left, is gone and he must build from the ground up. Again. A challenge too, because she seems so taken with the Warsmith. The notion of another chase doesn’t thrill him as he feels it should.

“Evenin’, Solas. Enjoying the balmier weather? Good, good.” She doesn’t wait for an offer, taking a seat nearby - though farther than she would have _before_. It bothers him… to see so much of his work undone. “Thought I’d come and warn you. Sera’s been a bit restless today and… well...”

A small, tired smile slips out before he can conceal it. “I will secure my possessions. Thank you for the advance warning.”

“Was no trouble. I was coming to see you anyway.”

“Might I inquire what for?”

“Well, the way I figure it… Everyone’s made their feelings known on my little trip to the good old days. Everyone but you… So, I kept waiting for you to speak your mind but I guess you’re not one to yell, lecture or point fingers in public.”

He can’t help but laugh. “Not in public, no.” he agrees and letting the mask slip is worth it to see her eyes widen and lips part slightly. Despite it all, she’s still somewhat attracted to him and it fills him with a heady sense of satisfaction.

“Alright. So, I’m ready.” she says, frowning, thinning her lips and drawing a few deep breaths as though to steel herself “Go on, say your piece.” She looks absolutely ridiculous and yet he finds it more disarming than any roguish squint and charming smile. He doesn’t want to be cruel… but he must.

“We’ve been given to understand that a Dalish god was responsible for bringing you back to us.” he says, and it’s not really a question.

“Only a _Dalish_ god?”

“To my knowledge, most alienage elves adhere to the Andrastian doctrine.” he offers, pretending to misunderstand.

She is less high-strung than when she left though, more perceptive, and her eyes narrow at his deflection.

“No, I meant… what about you? You never seemed to buy too much into this whole Herald of Andraste thing. I assumed you weren’t one to believe in the Maker. Was I wrong?”

“No. Though that in no way implies that I hold to the fairytales that form the majority of Dalish beliefs.” he counters.

“Right… so you don’t believe in the Dalish gods... or, what was it, Creators.”

“I don’t believe that they were gods, no. But I acknowledge that _something_ existed so start the legends." he explains "Mages, or spirits, or something we’ve never seen.”

“Thank the Stone! Finally someone with a bit of sense! It’s what I’ve been trying to tell everyone but they all go deaf when I talk about something they don’t want to hear.”

He’d known that she didn’t consider June to have been a god but not that she’d be this passionate about it. It is… refreshing.

“Tell me then, Herald, what was your impression of the God of Craft?”

“Well… _**not** _ a god, for one thing.” she admits, grinning.

“You seem quite certain of it. Did he not awe you with his power?”

“Awe… Pff! Look, Solas. He was just a man. He didn’t bring back the dead in front of me… sure as Stone didn’t seem all-knowing… I mean, what sort of fool puts a forge in a limestone cave under the bottom of the sea with only a magic mirror for an exit?” Her words are harsh but the tone fond and she is smiling, likely recalling some amusing memory.

“I… see.”

“The Carta’s always been full of powerful men." she shares quietly, as though her criminal connections had ever been in doubt. "I didn’t get where I am now by fawning over everyone stronger than me - or bowing down to lick their boots. Hiding and keeping quiet are better for one's health anyway...  Bend too low and you're just askin' for a kick in the face.”

He plays at surprise. “No boot-licking? And did the Master of Crafts abide such disrespect?”

Loud and warm, her hearty laugh still fails to hide the longing in her eyes. “He didn’t. Not at first. Blessed Stone did we make a mess of his place.”

“You fought him?!”

“Till he offered a truce even.” she boasts, looking cocky and proud ~~and lovely~~.

“You are… Forgive me, Herald. I suppose I should be used to expecting miracles from you by now.”

“Heh, not really a miracle. We just... uhh... found slightly less painful ways to entertain ourselves.”

He tries not to show how much the idea bothers him. It shouldn’t. This is merely a game he must play. “That is some… surprisingly private information.”

“S’not like I shouted it off the rooftops. Just thought you should know." Her chin lifts in defiance. "I… I couldn’t wait forever. And I didn’t.”

“...And now?”

“Now I’m gonna set some people to work on the little mystery of where they’re holding June while we deal with this Elder One.”

She can’t possibly be treating this as casually as she’s implied. Doubt or disdain must show on his face because her features settle into an angry, mulish expression. _“ **What**?”_ she demands.

“It’s hardly a _‘little mystery’_ when the Dalish have been bemoaning the Creators’ imprisonment for millennia.”

“Ah… but see, there’s at least one person out there who’s bound to know where June is.”

“...Who are you thinking of?”

“Why, the guy who locked him up, of course. This Fen’Harel. Find _him_ , find the gods.”

Her confident stare meets his own darkly intent one, and she is trapped. “But would a jailer ever be inclined to help you free his prisoners?”

“You said it yourself. It’s been millennia since all the elven-gods were locked away. And I dunno, Solas, but it seems to me like forever’s a pretty long time to hold a grudge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dubious Lore Interpretation & Head-Canon Ahead:** With what we learn inside the Temple of Mythal, it's implied that June wasn't originally the God of Crafts... or at least not as the Dalish understand crafts. So I'm thinking, what if he was still the Master Craftsman but because he's a really powerful mage not just a carpenter, instead of making pretty little bows and arrows he built weapons of mass destruction. That's where Fen'Harel's nickname for him - **_Warsmith_** \- would come from.  
>  And speaking of head-canon. I'd love to hear your opinions on the elven pantheon. What do **_you_** think each god was like?


	14. Chapter 14

**Five Weeks Later, While Waiting for the Last Mages to Gather at Haven**

« _It’s not fun, finding out just how many people are willin’ to kill you ~~and for what little harm~~ , just ‘cause they won’t put up with somethin’ you've said. Weird too, in its way… havin’ people mad at me over the truth of a tale ‘stead of a bad shipment or me sayin’ somethin’ rotten ‘bout their mums. ~~Can’t even pin it on someone else neither when everyone and their dog’s got their eye on~~ _

_But on the other hand, more people to hide behind, right? Even if another two’ve slipped past Leliana’s little watchers again. ~~It almost makes you think, right? Three in a month?!~~ Eh… Fuck it! Just gotta think of it as life keepin’ me on my toes, s’all._ »

It’s quiet in this part of Haven, here in his cabin, with only the quill scratching against the parchment and her nails beating a steady rat-tat-tat on the table as she writes. It helps her focus on the words instead of the sting of elfroot poultice on the cuts and the irritating itch of fresh cotton bandages (the cheap kind was all she’d had on hand). They don’t stand out much in the dull candlelight, a good thing too, as Solas gets weird and ... _moody_ whenever she visits sporting bloodstains, no matter how much she insists that most of the blood’s not hers - not usually at least.

The candle flickers when she stops and sighs, taking a moment to flex her fingers. They feel cold and stiff and her last words are even more illegible than usual but one candle will only warm them so much... and she won’t light a fire (It’s enough that she broke in unannounced.)

Slowly, she dips the quill again.

« _It’s not all bad at least, there’s the new contacts, more than I’ve had in my life. More than I know what to do with, and I ain’t lacking for ideas. … Petrick says he’s heard ‘bout a coven or cult or some such in Antiva that might have somethin' to say about F.H. Maybe just another dead end. ~~Ugh! Elves. You’d think they’d have wised up on how writin’ stuff down actually helps with rememberin’ all that **glorious history**~~. So far Solas’ been more help  asleep than three Dalish clans together. I hope—_»

Her eyes flash to the open door, where the elf stands with a questioning look and an indulgent smile.

“I would welcome you to my humble dwelling” he says in lieu of a greeting “but it seems you’ve already made yourself at home.” Arms laden with books, papers and silver-capped scroll cases, he moves to the table. There’s enough room for his hoard without having to put her own work away - a promising start.

“I’ve got a very good excuse this time, Solas.” she hastens to explain “There are corpses in my cabin and you know how Cassandra insists that _‘it’s unseemly for the Herald to appear so thoroughly at ease with dead bodies lying nearby’_. Bla bla, nag nag.”

“Assassins, I presume. _Again_.” The words are sharp, dripping with disdain... and it’s a talent of his really, to put so much feeling in a sentence that she can hear the second meaning louder than the first _‘The Spymistress has failed, I take it. Again.’_ She’d defend her adviser but that ‘ _again_ ’ bothers her too.

“Ha-ha... Yeah… everyone’s right pissed. Mind, I was too. Ruined my third favorite jerkin…” she tries to joke, relieved when he rolls his eyes and graciously plays along.

“Well, I suppose we shouldn’t offend Cassandra’s sensibilities any more than we must.” That’s as good as an invitation, so she nods her thanks and goes back to her journal, back to trying to map out her life with erratic thoughts and clumsy words.

« _Had 5 shipments of lyrium brought in so far. Might be enough… might not be. ~~Fucking two months now and the c~~ _

_F_ _iona and Cullen still haven’t agreed on just how much the mages might need to help seal the Breach. At least Lantos’ come through on that last deal but he tells me Dasher’s still not happy about the Herald thing. Or the elf thing. Or anything really, f ~~uck that man, he’s never happy~~. If I didn’t know for a fact that he hates working with outsiders, I’d have said this last hit came from him. Especially with the timing. ...Still might’ve. Should probably have Leliana check up on that._ »

Somewhere behind her, Solas breathes a gusty sigh and starts pottering about the fireplace. Soon, there’s a cheery fire going and still blessed quiet, just the sound of her quill and pages turned.

He leaves a cup of honeyed milk by her elbow at some point, a second candle too, just as she starts to squint; a shawl round her shoulders and a throw in her lap, always when she is too caught up in her writing to offer anything more than a distracted nod.

She does stop to gather her thoughts from time to time; finds herself sneaking peeks at Solas sitting there in this shabby old armchair stacked with blankets and pelts, leg thrown over a knee, heavy tome open in his lap and still dressed in his leathers and furs, like a savage lore-keeper spellbound by some ancient writings. She doesn’t even realize that, as the hours count down to dusk, all that coiled tension gradually unwinds and she’s smiling.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found it very hard to hit the right tone with this but I hope it turned out at least somewhat ok... Feelings. _Ugh._

**Solas, Temple Ruins**

There’s a trail leading to her hiding place, a carpet of broken nightmares drawn in crimson and gray. It weaves between crumbled pillars, behind half-fallen arches and rooms filled with anxious Inquisition soldiers whose questions Solas waves away with bland smiles and vague mutters.

The wandering line of ash, bone and glinting lyrium shards takes him down side-stairs and narrow passages. He walks stiffly, looking straight ahead, trying to ignore the harsh, dissonant notes of the dying red lyrium and the slate shadows tinting the walls, grim imprints of where men once stood. He has enough reminders of his mistakes to choke on them a hundred times. He needs no more.

At last, he finds Malika sitting in a corner, worrying her bottom lip while she stares at the chattering congregation of mages. A couple of blackened, half-toppled statues of Andraste watch over the Herald’s shadowy alcove as she in turn observes her people’s final preparations. Her boots tap a hurried beat, as do her metal gauntlets against the ruined wall. She’s clearly nervous but they're all waiting for her.

“It’s time, isn’t it?”

“It is.” he agrees, coming to stand beside her. They’re not far from the mages, but hidden well enough. In another life, he too might've picked such a spot to spy on others, even if the intent would have been different.

“You know, Solas, I’ve been thinking and… I’d really like a kiss... right about now.”

His thoughts had already turned to derivative magic streams, augmented focusing runes and how best to send magic through a being nearly immune to it that her question, so completely unexpected, leaves him staring, wide-eyed and speechless.

“For good luck.” she adds, as though that’s somehow supposed to make her proposal sound less bizarre.

He stays silent, hoping that it’s enough to convey his refusal while his thoughts race. _Why now_ , he asks himself. _Is she afraid the sealing ritual might kill her? Should he encourage her advances? Is she even serious?_ She seems completely unaffected by his searching stare, and he can’t read her at all. His eyes narrow in annoyance. _Isn’t she still pining after the Warsmith? He will **not** be a replacement for the other Elvhen... Though being the Herald’s lover would put him in an even better position to direct her choices… No, he can still walk other paths in the pursuit of his duty,_ he silently argues. _He already holds her trust. There is no need. It would be too distasteful..._

The silence grows uncomfortable. Unfortunately, the Herald can feign obliviousness with the best of them - especially when it might get her something she wants - and she simply stares back, smiling. A good luck kiss. His eyes fall to those full lips, flushed pink from her nervous chewing. _What did the Warsmith even see in a shadow_ , he questions, unaware of his own quickened breaths and pupils grown wide. Slowly, his gaze trails over the woman's impossibly tiny, invitingly curvy body, remembers her lounging on a pelt in front of his fireplace, small hands cupping one of his large earthen mugs as she listens, imagines her small hands wrapping around—

“I don’t think that would be wise.” he finally forces himself to say. _He can do enough as her friend. There’s no need to complicate matters any further._

She nods solemnly but then slowly draws closer, almost as though she’s trying not to scare him. “Yes, of course. You’re probably right.” she agrees, and then “But about my good luck kiss…” A hand fists in his vest and tugs.

 _Fenedhis lasa! Her stubbornness and selfishness know no bounds_ , he tells himself even as he bends down and his own fingers slide in her hair.

It’s thick and coarse, a tight mess of tiny braids that try to resist him. _Vexing! So like her_ , he thinks, trying to summon anything other than anticipation. Malika's eyes close and her lightly parted lips hover a hairsbreadth from his. _He could pull back._ Her warm breath fans his skin and he shivers. _He could still pull back…_ An angry, frustrated growl rips out of his throat and he’s pushing her against the wall, a thigh wedged between her legs to hold her high, and his mouth finally finds hers.

Hot, chapped lips rub against his cold ones and his heart is beating madly - or is it hers. Her lips tremble slightly. Then, she presses back against him, slow and questioning, and though he doesn’t quite understand the query he wants to say yes, yes, coax open her mouth and taste her. Mouth and skin and every hidden—

 _ **No.**_ He breathes in deeply, trying to regain some control but just succeeds in filling his lungs with the scent of her, sword oil and hard leather and **woman**. _This isn’t right_ , he pleads with himself, but his hands have a mind of their own. Where one wanders over her curves, committing them to memory, the other, still fisted in her thick braids, tugs and pulls, angling her head just as he likes. _Yes_.

Her soft whines spur him on, her fingers on his neck feel like fire and his kisses grow harder, fiercer. Every gasp is a new challenge, every soft mewl a conquest and he almost can’t tell when she pushes him away. Dazed - horrified with himself - he draws back. She’s swaying lightly but grinning with such happiness that his breath catches for an instant. _I want her._ The thought is terrifying but while his world is falling apart, Malika just pushes away from the wall and walks to the railing.

“Blessed Stone, Solas, with a kiss like that, I’ll have the Ancestors’ own luck.” she comments, laughing, and then jumps down to the lower level, where her people immediately flock around her.

There’s no question about it. _This will be trouble._


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bravery aside, dwarven smugglers (even ex-dwarven smugglers) **don't** appreciate being left alone to face ancient Blighted magisters all by themselves...

**Cadash, Somewhere in the Frostback Mountains**

_‘Stand your ground... The dawn will come…’_

The humans’ song fades slowly, until the only sound is the mournful whistle of the snow squall through the pines the farther they walk from camp. Trudging after her elven friend with two bear pelts piled on her shoulders, Malika feels like a mountain suddenly pressed to change its primeval home.

The black furs are massive and cumbersome, possibly ridiculous and definitely alarming. The thought of how she must look to the commoners curves her lips in a nasty little smile. The healers have done their best but she still has two awful black eyes - courtesy of hitting her head on her way down the mining shaft, no doubt - and her hand hasn’t stopped sparking and sputtering after her encounter with Corypheus, even with the necklace’s help.

It makes the black pelts glow an eerie green and she feels a tiny jolt of satisfaction every time someone bows or mutters some fearful "Maker, save us" as she passes them by. _‘Good’_ she thinks spitefully, _‘kneel in awe or piss your pants in fear. **I** wasn’t allowed to flee with you. They all but locked **me** out of your precious human Chantry to give **you** time to run away.’_ It’s a petty thought, perhaps, but one she indulges all the same. She’d rather scorn these strangers than think of how her companions left without a backwards glance. Briefly she wonders if her pious human advisors would’ve been quite so eager to have her face a would-be god if they’d known her mark didn’t come from their Maker. No, that instead it came from some decrepit elven mage, known to most elves as the Bringer of Nightmares.

She laughs loudly imagining their faces and then groans when the cold winter air irritates her already sore throat. He’d made her scream, Corypheus did. Someday, Malika vows, she’ll make him scream right back, repay him for every fucking change in her comfortable lifestyle.

When Solas turns, she just waves him on and follows slowly through the knee-high snow. _‘Where’s he even leading us’_ , she wonders. They’ve been walking for close to ten minutes and seeing as neither’s got their packs with them, it doesn’t seem likely that Solas wants them to ditch the Inquisition. She’s about to call it quits when he finally finds some spot that seems acceptable (all snowbanks look the same to her but maybe there’s some wizardly reason why he picked this one in particular). It turns out not to be the snowbank at all but a snuffed out brazier Solas was looking for, which he swiftly lights with an eerie blue flame. Veilfire, she remembers, a memory of flame. Well, a memory’s not going to keep her warm and she’s still dead tired after her encounter with the crazy Vint monstrosity. If Solas expects her to stand on ceremony he’s out of his mind. Under the mage’s bewildered gaze, she starts hollowing out a little den in the snow, just deep enough for a tiny dwarf, and lines it with one of the pelts. Then, satisfied with her warm, cushy seat, plunks down and waits for Solas to speak.  

Unsettlingly, Solas is taking his time. _‘Blighted Stone’_ , she silently curses _‘and here I thought there’d been enough horrid revelations for one night.’_ At length, he speaks and the great big secret he seemed so worried about sharing doesn’t seem big at all.

“The orb Corypheus carried, the power he used against you, it is Elvhen. Corypheus used the orb to open the Breach. Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that destroyed the Conclave.” His tone is curt, irritated and he stops to draw a heavy breath, as though praying for patience. “I do not yet know how Corypheus survived... nor am I certain how people will react when they learn of the orb’s origin.” he continues in the same vaguely angry tone and Malika takes the moment to interrupt.

“Pff!” she snorts “ _ **I**_ know how they’ll react. We’ve got a pretty good basis for that, don’t we?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Take a look at how they acted towards _me_ , the so-called Herald of their Maker’s bride, when they found out about June’s gift, which was something to be thankful for, right? Now multiply that by a thousand - cause June’s chain didn’t spew demons every dozen miles. Then divide the resulting _‘goodwill’_ to every poor sod in every alienage from here to Nevarra. Blessed Stone, even I wouldn’t wanna see that and I don’t give a fig about people who can’t help themselves… Letting the orb fall to a monster like Corypheus… old Dalish _‘god’_ really fucked up on this one.” While she rants, Solas stares back, stormy eyes wide with some indefinable emotion.

“I never said it belonged to one of the gods.”

“You didn’t have to... It belonged to Fen’Harel.” she whispers sadly, looking away.

“I… You seem quite certain of that.”

“I am. Just don’t go spreading it around. For the first week or so, June couldn’t stop ranting about Fen’Harel’s magic and how the feel of it set his teeth on edge whenever I was nearby… Even weeks later he still tended to cover my hand with pillows, blankets or his own hand when we were erm… busy.” Malika confesses, cheeks flushing when Solas’ hand flies to cover his mouth and he swiftly turns away. _‘Was I too frank?’_ “Ahem. And anyway, this black orb Corypheus used to try and extract the... anchor pulsed with the same kind of magic. Still, I looked pretty stupid when I asked him if he was this Dread Wolf the elves worship...” she admits, rubbing the back of her neck in embarrassment.

“ _What?!_ ” he chokes out, snapping around so suddenly it’s a miracle he doesn’t get whiplash. He looks at her like like he’s never seen her before and Malika bristles.

“What? Don’t look at me like that! It seemed logical. Ancient magister who walked inside the Golden City. Says he found it empty... And then the city turns black... Stories get twisted over time, alright. That hideous mug of his is certainly gonna bring me some nightmares. Besides, he’d just finished telling me how I interrupted some ritual of his and he wants his magic b—”

“It is not _**his** _ magic.” Solas bites back, unreasonably vicious.

“Yeah well, don’t yell at me! After he called me a thief I just said _‘Fuck you, if you ain’t Fen’Harel you’re a thief too, Ugly’_ …That didn’t go over too well.”

“You—”

“Pissed him off something terrible. Yeah, I did.” she tells him, still feeling somewhat proud over rattling a second ancient being. _‘Should start a collection’_ comes a whimsical thought _‘An elf and a human so far… Need a dwarf and a qunari… Where would one even find an ancient qunari?’_ “But I guess it worked out in the end cause after calling me names and tossing me about a bit I managed a lucky stab and rolled next to the trebuchet. Cut the rope holding that last charge and bam… Fuck him. Getting his blighted undies in a twist... I didn’t even want this shit.” she adds in a whisper, glaring at the green anchor still casting angry sparks.

Quietly, Solas kneels to take her palm in his hands and lets a strand of magic trail over her skin. If flickers in and out of focus, as though it can’t quite decide what to be until it touches her. Then, it settles into an odd green mist that tangles with the mark’s own magic and soothes the erratic bursts. Potential versus reality, he’d once explained to Cassandra. Was this something similar?

“ _Absolutely fascinating_ … Does it hurt?” he softly inquires.

 _‘_ _Curiosity should make people look young’_ she thinks with a chill _‘not so very, very old.’_ Unsettled, she brushes the thought aside.

“Nah. It just feels funny. Funnier than usual. The chain usually keeps it from bothering me too much but now it feels like it just… flows from one place to another.” she tries to explain, waving her other arm for emphasis.

“Flowing? Let me see.” He tries probing with his magic but, as ever, her body only allows the smallest trickle to slip past the skin and Solas pulls back, frowning. “Please try to describe this in a bit more detail.”

“It’s sort of a back and forth…” she tells him, struggling to find the right words “like the tides, but with dams instead of shores. And since I’m the dam, it can’t really get out either. It’s making me sick… seasick. Ugh. Except when you do that… mhmm, yes, that… That feels nice.”

“Does it?’ he tries to sound casual but she feels a spell brush against the anchor again and the mingled magics send a rush of heat straight to her core. It startles another moan out of her and Malika thinks she can feel his hands shake lightly against her own. When she opens an eye to check though, he’s as aloof as before. _‘Must’ve imagined it.’_

“Yeah…” she answers hoarsely before clearing her throat “It’s not how it feels with anyone else I’ve tried. Must be that Fade connection you’re always talking about.”

“Perhaps.” he allows but doesn’t experiment again. Neither however, does he move away. With the anchor’s magic calmed, Malika feels the exhaustion pressing down once more and, daringly, rests her forehead on his shoulder. _‘Just for a moment’_ she thinks _‘Just until he pulls away.’_

The moment stretches. If her soft breaths against his collarbone bother him, it’s only evident in how his fingers grip her hand tighter and tighter. But it’s not painful, not yet. She could fall asleep like this, nestled under the pelts and leaning on Solas. Perhaps she almost does, until he breaks the silence to say “At the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the kiss…”

“Hmm?”

“It must not happen again.” he tells her sternly. “It was inappropriate on several levels.”

“Oh. Several, huh?” She doesn’t mean to mock, but really, he’d been pretty enthusiastic about the whole thing not a day ago. What’s all this now?

“You are the Inquisition’s religious figurehead. You cannot be seen consorting with an apostate… and you are in a relationship” he adds, touching her chain briefly. “are you not?”

“What’s that to do with anything?”

He draws back, scowling but Malika’s frowning too, because he'd never wanted anything serious before, nothing aside from casual flirtation and light-hearted teasing and she tells him as much. His jaw clenches and he looks away but he doesn’t refute her comments. She doesn’t know what’s bothering him, doesn’t know if she wants to (if he’s anything like Bull or Leliana she might just be horrified by what’s going on in his clever head) but affection’s a good fix for almost anything, in her humble opinion. So she darts forward, plants a feather-light kiss on his cheek and pulls back, grinning. Then, because he looks so very much like an offended lordling that it’s hilarious, she darts back in and plants a kiss on the other.

“Stop this at once.” he demands “I am not-”

“Interested?” she cuts in. He's yet to step back - or even let go of her hand. _'Who does he think he's fooling?'_ “You are. But don't worry. I’m not reading anything into it. From our little chats it’s obvious to me that dwarves aren’t really your… well… you don’t like us much. So maybe it’s just curiosity. I won’t be offended if it is, because while there are plenty of things I like about you, Solas, I’m not looking for something serious either. But I really enjoy your company, your magic makes my mark sing and you’re frankly too handsome for my peace of mind… With the Breach and all, we could stand to release some tension and I’d love it if we could do it together. It doesn’t have to be anything more. So… think about it?”

* * *

  **~oOo~**

* * *

**Skyhold**

There should be a feeling of safety to Skyhold - and there is, to a point. The keep’s walls give the sense of a colossal stone giant having settled down to sleep, rock fused to rock simply by bearing its weight through time. Rooted. Solid. Only it also feels to her as though this figurative giant is anchored on the bones of its kin, each ground down to dust. The fortress doesn’t seem to have been built to last, she thinks, but rather to endure, to be razed and raised again, age after age. Solas had called it Tarasyl'an te'las, “the place where the sky was held back” in the trade tongue, and perhaps that explains it. Because something meant to hold back the firmament hasn’t a chance at forever...

But it might help them weather whatever Corypheus throws at them at least, especially with the army it houses, which grows larger with each passing day. The Inquisition might not be influential enough for the likes of Queen Anora or Empress Celene, but the common man knows which way the wind blows and more willing recruits knock on their gates than desperate refugees.

Though she’d admit that some valiant souls are more… colorful than others. One such, a lanky, average-looking young man is merely a spirit of Compassion given form if Solas is to be believed (and the more Solas tells her about these things, the more Malika thinks that the bullshit she tried selling to Sera about having been cursed by a spirit of Karma might not have been that impossible after all). Compassion - or Cole, as he likes to be called - has come to warn them that the red templars are making plans to take control of Orlais by assassinating Empress Celene and placing one of Corypheus’ minions in her stead. Has, in fact, lifted the thoughts right out of their heads and thank the Stone he finds it hard to rummage around in her own head because a person’s thoughts ought to be safe from prying.

Still, the boy’s talents aren’t in question and his intentions seem honorable even if he can’t give them any names. Leliana agrees that keeping an eye on the situation in Orlais is warranted and warning the Empress of an attempt can do the Inquisition no harm. With that in mind, she leaves the Spymistress to her plotting because dear Josephine has brought her quite the gift.

Comte Armand de Morrac, having heard of the Herald’s apparent fascination with elven culture and in thanks for having saved his second cousin (and rumored lover)’s life in Haven, has donated to the Inquisition a magic mirror not unlike the one she’d broken in the past, though notably less grand. Its frame, a blend of obsidian and stormheart, has definitely suffered some damage - fire perhaps or, by the scorch marks, even lightning - and most of the glass is missing but if it can be repaired… If it can be repaired… Her elven scholars have certainly worked themselves into a frenzy and even Solas has promised to lend his expertise. Being allowed to try and fix - or play with - the eluvian has clearly cheered him up.

Every time she passes through the rotunda he seems excited and eager to share news on the progress of the repairs to the point where she feels as though instead of Solas helping her, she’s given **_him_ ** a present.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just back from abroad... I'll edit this soon but in the meantime, please excuse any mistakes. :)

For the third day in a row there's an elaborate flower arrangement (easily as tall as she) in front of her desk. Today’s monstrosity is fashioned in the shape of a sun from a variety of mustard yellow flowers, silk ribbons, garishly painted feathers, bees, butterflies and moths secured with jeweled pins. Edging around it, she’s quick to grab the books Solas had asked for and then just as quick to jump out of range. A change of clothes, comfortable, _**sensible** _ dark grey wool, finds its way into her travelling pack as well as two dozen needles dipped in a paralyzing agent of her own devising, on which she almost pricks her fingers when her eyes dart to the flowers and she shudders.

Madame de Fer's little taunts have nothing on an angry Josephine.

Two obese, glassy eyed stuffed birds stare at her from their nest in the center of the sun, on a little bed of lace and gilded straw - and while the Orlesian ponce who sent this probably considers it a beautiful metaphor for finding love in the heart of the Inquisition, the horrid thing just makes her hair stand on end. A tiny card identifies the gift giver as one of her more enthusiastic (though dim-witted) suitors - no doubt an easy tool for Josephine's revenge. She briefly wonders what cruel and unusual punishment Sera might've been subjected to for her part in the prank before shrugging. The elf owes her one as it is and hopefully Josephine's ire will have passed by the time they return. The thought makes her smile and she hurries though the rest of her packing.

With Dagna's help her researchers had found a metal which Solas finally declared compatible with the mirror’s materials and sufficiently responsive that strengthening the spell weave wouldn't disrupt the original enchantment. Now they should, in theory at least, be able to mimic the initial transport pattern to allow people to cross the mirror to its pair. Most of Dagna's explanations had gone over her head (her fellow dwarf might as well have been talking about summoning an army of demons for all she knew) but Solas had been patient and walked her through the basics of what they'd be doing using simple enough similes that even Malika had gotten excited at the prospect of having the magic mirror finally work.

A couple of knives disappear into the folds of her armor, two more in her boots. Six thin ones nestle against her kidskin gloves. Then she carefully adjusts the leather to hide all hints of their presence. Dagna had promised that nothing dangerous awaited them on the other side - had, in fact, checked and double-checked with a whatchamacallit that sent sounds and impressions back to its twin - but old habits die hard (especially when she doesn’t want them to). It’s not that all the assassination attempts are getting to her. It’s not.

Results from the buzzing, flashing, rune inlaid thingamajig suggested they’d be arriving in some small, dark, possibly abandoned stone chamber so least at the pickaxes strapped to her belt won’t make Dagna pout. Not that she can _**really** _ wield them in an emergency but it’s the principle of the matter… and the fact that they’re poisoned. Just a little. As is the shovel tied to her pack (whose edges she had only _slightly_ sharpened). Alright, so maybe all the assassination attempts are getting to her. But Solas will be there with her to supervise the three laborers who’d been cleared to help (Leliana’s agents posing as menial workers if the Spymistress is even half as crafty as Malika thinks she is).

So that’s a relief.

* * *

  **~oOo~**

* * *

No, it’s _**not** _ a relief.

Because of course things go sour as soon as they dig themselves out of the walled off room. Venatori had been skulking around the ruins and collapsing the outer wall lands their little party smack in the middle of the Vints’ camp where a nice, even dozen of Corypheus’ fanatic minions jump at the chance to rid the world of their master’s enemy.

True to her prediction, the Inquisition ‘laborers’ each manifest some manner of sharp, pointed weapon but working with people whose fighting styles she isn’t used to is just like… well, like dual wielding pickaxes. Difficult, awkward, terribly inconvenient… and something she’s now forced to do anyway. So she grits her teeth, hefts the pickaxes and curtly orders “Kill the ones in the robes first.” before vanishing around a boulder. They’re not her companions but they follow orders well enough. The three of them flit around the ruins, in and out of shadow, focusing their attacks on the unarmored mages while Malika herself acts as Solas’ shield.

She’s just small enough to pull some very nasty tricks on two of the fighters before the rest wise up and guard their guts. But training and instinct work against her. Most attacks graze the warriors’ armor because she expects her weapons to be straight instead of curved, expects sharp blades instead of dull metal and wood. She overextends, makes overly wide swings, leaves far too many openings... And after one too many hits to her side (and there's at least one broken rib there, she's sure), Malika's patience runs out.

She's probably insane for considering it but finally the pickaxes are dropped in favor of a pair of short daggers no longer than her hand. In any normal situation she’d be an idiot for trying to attack such heavily armored warriors with the weapon equivalent of a toothpick but she'll just have to have faith in Solas’ barriers. The enemy is dying too slowly and their own are taking too many hits. They have to end this soon. A little insanity is called for… though by the vicious elven cursing when Solas notices what she’s up to, her mage doesn’t exactly approve. Just thank the Stone for magical resistance, fast-acting poisons and competent support.

Solas’ barriers save her crazy hide more than once. Her own knives spare her any more broken ribs while taking out anyone trying to get close to the elf. He's in rare form this morning, her mage, the eye of a storm of molten rock and freezing, lashing hail.

But the enemy spell-casters are no slouches either and Leliana’s people are too hurt to follow when Solas and her chase - _limp_ \- after two retreating Venatori. With as many injuries as they're all sporting, they can’t afford to have the Vints call for support.

What neither of them expect is landing in the middle of yet another fight.

That the Venatori are incinerated by some panicked mages is small relief when the mages’ pet spirit turns from disemboweling a bandit to look at her companion. Then, pained and desperate, screams “ _Solas?! Solas... Ma halani, ‘ma falon!_ ” and Solas’ angry aura turns murderous.

So, alright. The spirit's Elvhen mumbo-jumbo, probably a cry for help instead of a battle-cry. Well. That just lowered their options... dramatically. Still, she feels she's got to ask.

“Whose side are we on?” she calls out before Solas fade steps in the middle of the battlefield, growling “No one’s but our own!”

Shit. _Shit_. Of course they are. Sighing, she draws the tiny daggers and starts looking for an easy mark. _  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blizzard and Firestorm because **_chaos_**. Also, I'll leave it to you to decide if Solas is using the royal we or not. :)  
>  Elvhen: _Solas?! Solas... Ma halani, ‘ma falon!_ \- Solas?! Solas... Help me, my friend! ( 'ma - shortened form of emma; my/mine. If anyone wants to argue in favor of 'ara' or something else, I welcome the chance to learn more.)  
>  Update: In under a month you guys have made Mismatched my most popular Inquisition fic. Thank you for all the kudos and comments. Your lovely feedback keeps me writing. :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Cadash, Back at Skyhold**

They don't really talk about it.

Between offing two mages and a bandit, having her leg broken, getting shocked, burnt and stabbed in the gut, the part of the fight she was actually conscious for went... about as well as could be expected. And she woke up to Solas' healing hands instead of, well, not waking up at all, so the rest couldn't have gone too badly.

Solas' buddy hadn't croaked either. Which made her feel somewhat better about rushing into an ongoing battle and taking on both sides. Not much, mind you, because _who the fuck does that_? Without backup, tired and injured to boot. And it's scary as shit that the two of them even survived (especially since she has no idea how it actually happened). Because Solas is supposed to be good but not _that_ good, to leave behind a lifeless, smoldering battlefield, save them both (after needlessly endangering them, and that's a whole other thing) _and_ free his shackled Fade friend....

But it feels like a jerk move to start grilling the man who saved her life on where exactly he's been keeping these god-like powers and could she get some of those herself, please and thank you.

So every time she hobbles over to the rotunda (her left leg's still got a while to heal) they ' _don't really talk about it_ ' so loudly that half the mages and researchers on the upper levels keep peering down as if to catch a glimpse of some huge drama. _Joy_. 

* * *

**~oOo~**

* * *

**Solas, Some Ten Days Later**

It’s absurd how much he craves her presence, how eagerly he anticipates her daily visits. As if they mean that all is well between them. They don’t. And it isn’t. And any truth he might provide would only make things worse. (After all, she's made her opinion of _Fen'Harel_ very clear.)

But Wisdom is alive in no small part to Malika’s unexpected bravery and support. Had she not allocated so many resources to fixing the eluvian, if not for her good judgement in deciding to chase the fleeing Venatori, one of his oldest companions might have—

No. He will not think of it. Wisdom is safe, uncorrupted... And it no longer feels like a lie to call Malika ‘friend’. Though that in itself is dangerous. He dislikes feeling beholden to anyone, let alone her. Too many emotions already cloud his judgement where she’s concerned.

In spite of himself, he’d already felt attracted to this slip of a being bearing his mark ...and perhaps even slightly envious of the relationship June’s courting gift implied.

He used to think ‘ _I shouldn’t_ ’. These quicklings were all strange and fleeting and she as much as any of them. Not even gentle, subtle or sophisticated. (Not even an elf.) And for all that she now stood as a leader of men, the two of them were nothing alike. To simply sate some perverse attraction to her unfamiliar form? Any dalliance risked souring their working relationship. Anything more than a dalliance? Impossible. To open his heart when her life would be over in the blink of an eye? Insane.

None of this has changed. Yet with the Inquisition here in his home, he feels tired, old… worn out by age-old worries. He’s never considered himself a greedy man. Impulsive, perhaps. Incautious, of late. (The disaster with Corypheus can unquestionably be laid at his door.) But if not greed, something is urging him to take a chance.

Now, he catches himself thinking ‘ _Why not?_ ’ and ‘ _Why shouldn’t I?_ ’ even when all he can offer her is scraps of pleasure and a handful of lies.

But if he must be impulsive… If he must be incautious… Then...

The evening finds him knocking on the door to her quarters. Whether she accepts or refuses, he’s done tormenting himself over the matter.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malika likes to live in the moment & Solas finds unexpected things.

He strides into her quarters looking like a man on a mission. Curious and somewhat confused, Malika stares as Solas climbs the stairs with an air of heavy resignation, as if the world is conspiring against him but he’s, nonetheless, determined to see things through (whatever these weighty, as of yet unidentified things may be).

His eyes are sharp, piercing and he’s not quite smiling but there’s something about the way Solas is watching her... To some extent she’s aware that ink has started dripping onto her paperwork but the sight of him waiting patiently in front of her couch has somehow become more important than mission requests, land disputes and various trade agreements. It’s certainly an unexpected reversal from the avoidance and forced formality of late.

Puzzled, she shoves aside her ruined papers and gestures to the couch.

“Solas. Please, take a seat.” she says.

He delays long enough for her to cross the room and sit down first. Even then, he still doesn’t say anything, content to let the quiet stretch.

Malika bristles. Is this going to be one of those fancy, upper-cruster games where every move means a dozen other things, because she’s in no mood for that. In silent protest, she crosses her arms and plants her boots on the couch.

It earns her a twitch and a disappointed frown. She shouldn’t feel as happy about it as she does. They’re probably not even keeping score.

“Really, Malika, must you?” Solas chides her.

“Well, if you’re not even gonna explain what game we’re playing, I really must.” she shoots back.

“It is no game.” he declares “Though broaching the subject is more difficult than I had anticipated.”

“Is this about the mess with the bandits, the mages, the Vints and your spirit friend? ...Stone, it sounds just like the start of a bad joke, doesn’t it?” she flippantly asks, hoping a jest might make him relax. It doesn’t. If anything, he holds himself stiffer than before.

“It is, in part.” he tells her “Though I did not come here to stir up the past.”

“It’s only been three weeks. Tch. Give it at least a month before you consign it to the pile of things that happened so long ago, they’re hardly worth mentioning. A year before it’s ancient history.” she says, feigning upset.

He finally cracks a tiny smile at that, and nods.

“So if it’s not that, what is it?” she asks, honestly curious. To her knowledge, that was really the only nasty incident involving them both. Still, if Solas doesn't want to talk about it, then fine, they won’t talk about. Malika can let him have this one thing. But then, what could be bothering him so much?

“I wanted to ask if your…” he stops and hesitates “Whether, in light of… _recent_ events, your perception of me has changed.”

“What? Nah. Don’t worry about it.” she’s quick to assure him “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you can whip out that kind of damage in an emergency. But I’m not gonna think you’re a bastard because you’ve been holding back. Even though, you know, you’re a bit of a bastard for holding back. But hey, if we’re doing just fine when you’re lazy, there’s no need to change things, am I right?”

“Lazy.” he deadpans. “...I suppose there are worse things you could think of me.”

“Probably.” she cheerfully agrees “I’ve got a pretty low opinion of many people.”

Solas smiles ruefully and shakes his head as though to say ‘ _of course you do_ ’. She scowls. Has she become so predictable?

“Am I excluded then from those many people?”

“I like you just fine.” she mumbles.

“And just how fine would fine imply?” he questions, looking strangely intent.

It’s Malika’s turn to stiffen in her seat.

“I think I’ve made that pretty clear.” she hedges.

“And yet I would hear it again.” Solas insists, leaning forward.

It’s no one thing she can identify but there’s something in the way he’s holding himself… a question… and an offer. Or maybe she’s just going crazy. Because this is _Solas_. The man who’s refused her at every turn. But if there’s a chance he’s saying yes...

“I want you to fuck me.” she blurts out and then cringes. Good going. Probably offended his sensibilities with just the words, Malika silently scolds herself, not to mention their meaning.

But Solas isn’t withdrawing like usual.

It takes her a moment to realize that there’s a warm hand cupping her cheek and full lips pressing against her own. Tentatively, she presses back and is rewarded with an arm wrapping around her waist and Solas dragging her onto his lap.

Her breathing picks up.

_Well._

Thrilled, she welcomes his hungry kiss, groans when his tongue slides between her parted lips to twine with her own. Fingers pull at her hair, harsh and impatient, almost painfully but not quite, though hard enough to trap her against him.

His affections are as forceful as they'd been at the Temple and when Solas' hips jerk in time with her own nervous fidgeting she can't help but moan at the sudden friction.

His taste, the heat of him against her chest, between her thighs, it’s intoxicating. She reaches blindly, fisting one hand in his shirt to draw him closer (as if that’s even possible), trailing the other across all naked skin (of which there’s far too little).

He trembles lightly as though he’s still holding himself back.

What must she even do to get him to let go, Malika desperately wonders, stroking his neck. The mark flares and he growls when it pulses in time with his heartbeat.

Magic skitters across her skin in return but it feels deeper than that, somehow.

The mark is soulbound, or so they tell her, and it wants to answer back. Her own magic resistance won’t let the two meet but they hover by one another, separated by the narrowest wall, flesh which has its own needs and desires.

She’s already panting, aroused and impatient, rutting against the hardness she can feel through his thin leggings.

What magic this is… she can’t even begin to understand.

It’s almost sexual, yet not. It’s want and longing, a wave of feelings that both are and aren’t her own. It’s light with curiosity and hope; heavy with eons’ worth of suppressed yearning (for something - _something_ that fits). It feels immense, terrifying and amazing both, and she’s selfish, yes, but she wants that for herself and the blighted mark is at least good for something because she _knows_ he can feel her desire to be that something - be even a small part of it - for him.

Please, let him accept, she silently pleads, nibbling on his lips and tugging at all those strange, foreign emotions.

It’s a foolish wish, she isn’t prepared for the devastating feeling of possessiveness it garners, nor how her body reacts to it.

There's a breath-taking warmth rushing through her veins, mingling with her desire. Each pushes, forces the other higher until she’s screaming against his lips and shuddering in completion.

Her eyes open in wide, frightened wonder. _What was that? She was…_

She doesn’t realize she’s spoken aloud until he answers, sounding amazed himself.

“You were… my own.” he whispers, eyes darting between her marked hand and her necklace. His lips, wet and flushed from their ardent kisses, keep twitching as though he’d like to smile but won’t allow himself just yet.

“What does that even mean?” she insists.

“I have no idea.” he admits, picking her up and carrying her to the bed. “Nothing of the sort has happened to me before.”

She thinks he looks bemused but… happy? His feelings are still there, hovering in the background, muted for now but not gone.

She’d like feel frightened and angry but it’s hard to muster up the energy when he’s just made her come (on kisses and _feelings_ , for Stone's sake)… and seeing how he’s started slowly undressing, she’s probably in for even more pleasure by the time the night’s over. 

Plenty of time to worry about everything else later, she decides, grinning as she rushes to slip out of her own clothes.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we left off, Solas and Malika were undressing so...  
> Absolutely no plot to this one.

With quick, deft movements, Malika works on removing her armor.

Her cheeks are flushed, skin shiny from her exertions. She seems amazingly eager and it’s a beautiful look on her. Eyes bright, she watches Solas with a hunger he feels reflected in his own gaze. Swiftly, she shrugs off each leather piece, heavy breaths blowing through lightly parted lips, and Solas’ fingers fumble on his fastenings, caught up in watching her.

There’s nothing coy about the way she undresses. Buttons open in a set order and buckles quickly come undone but this economy of movement betrays her need and stokes his lust far better than any slow and sensual disrobing.

He should focus on his own clothes. The feel of the stiff, restricting cotton on his aching flesh is maddening but Solas still finds himself helping Malika out of her armor, running his hands over each inch of newly exposed skin.

Hooded eyes rove over her tiny body.

She’s so small, barely half his height and his throbbing length twitches just thinking of how he might fit in her tightness. The mark stirs at their closeness and his cock jerks when Malika’s desire hits him.

Nothing can properly explain why his magic is both attuned to her and longing to rejoin his creator. Insanity, Solas tells himself, his mouth covering Malika’s in a rough, furious kiss. It must be as crazy as I, to want such impossible things.

Only they’re not impossible, because Malika’s feelings practically beg him to keep her... use her, just as the small hands massaging his rigid shaft while she opens his fastenings beg for darker, more primal deeds.

Groaning, Malika pulls back from the kiss and starts licking and nipping down his throat. "Lay back." she mumbles against his skin. "Relax." Her hot tongue soothes the gentle bites and his eyes close, head falling back to enjoy her attentions.

A shiver of delight runs though Malika when she sees him give in. But she needs to feel it too - feel that he wants this as much as she does - and she brings his hand back to her hair. "Here." she says "Just like that..."

Solas grips the coiled tresses almost on instinct when her lips ghost over his chest and her teeth scrape against the peaked buds. His fingers dig into her scalp and she moans, arching her neck to test the give and draw out the slight sting. Perfect, she thinks, and smiles between the messy kisses.

He’s panting, muscles taut as her tongue leaves a wet trail down his stomach, and Solas can’t stifle a frustrated growl when her mouth encounters cloth and she stops. His whole body trembles lightly, seeming to curse him for having delayed this. He opens his eyes, wide and wanting, watching Malika quickly unlace his leggings. When her fingers finally pull him free, he hisses a curse.

Her hands are just as small as he’d imagined, barely wrapping around his girth. Come is pearling at the head and he can’t keep silent when she darts a lick to taste him, tongue pressing boldly against the slit to draw out more.

He shudders and gasps, “Stop teasing, vixen.” His hands clench in the silken sheets when she finally obeys, licking the length of his weeping cock and then swallowing the head.

A low, keening sound escapes his throat when Malika starts sucking, her hands pulling at the part which can’t possibly fit in her tiny mouth. She can barely swallow. Saliva trickles down his turgid length until her hands are slick with it and she tightens her grip, rubbing faster and harder, head bobbing in time with the jerks.

Her mouth strains around the bulging cock-head and Solas tortures himself with the image for a while, brands it into his mind. He whispers filthy endearments and vulgar praises she’ll never understand but that some part of her might remember.

Malika’s nothing he’s ever wanted and yet just the sight of her, mewling while wantonly sucking his cock, full lips stretched obscenely around the length, threatens to undo him.

Soon, he gives in, pulling her up to straddle him. “Enough” he says, and his voice comes out low and rasping.

She blinks at the sudden change, then smiles and tilts her chin as though begging for a kiss which Solas eagerly obliges. His lips slant over hers and he can taste himself and her, salty and too-sweet from those horrid teas she likes to indulge in. With a throaty groan he deepens the kiss, tongue delving in with a suggestive rhythm.  

While he plunders her mouth his fingers sneak between them, his right thumb rubbing above her hood while his left hand makes its way to her pussy. He finds her absolutely drenched. From her previous climax of course, but she’s still dripping and he works a finger in, then two, while stroking her hidden nub. The third is a tight fit and he slows down, allows her to move against his fingers.  

“Solas, m-more...” Malika croaks, rutting against his hand. “Please.”

He waits, watching her face and scissoring his fingers. Her eyes are glazed and forehead wrinkled as she focuses on her pleasure, little stuttering breaths coming through puffy red lips.

She looks ruined and Solas finds he loves it. "Shh... just wait..." he croons, stalling till he believes she won’t feel much discomfort. Four in, it's incredibly tight and he can only think of how the squeeze would feel around his sex instead of his fingers. His cock is a mess, straining flesh slick with her spit, come leaking steadily as it bobs against his belly unattended.

“Stop,” she orders and pushes his hand away after a moment. "Let me-" She grabs him instead and sets the head next to her quivering entrance then slowly, almost too slowly, impales herself on his length. It's "Oh, oh, oh..."s and interrupted pleas, a string of senseless whining noises. It still burns, fills her to bursting and she stops after a while.

Breathing harshly, Solas makes himself still. Her tiny pussy holds him like a vice and he doesn’t dare thrust just yet. He forces himself to wait even when his body feels so tightly wound it’s like a string ready to snap. The mark sends him her joy and lust which, impossibly, makes him thicken even more, furthering the wait. It’s agony and he’s just about ready to beg when she finally starts moving. Slowly at first, almost hesitantly, but gaining momentum, her hot flesh pulling at him on every retreat.

It would be hard to kiss like this but Malika doesn’t even try it. Her mouth is on his chest, licking his skin and sucking his nipples while her small, calloused hands brace themselves on his thighs.

He doesn’t realize he’s started speaking until he finds himself praising her cunt and the way it feels around him. Promising her all manner of impossible things if only she doesn’t stop worshiping his body.

And even though he’s certain Malika has no idea what he’s saying, she doesn’t stop. Between her wet sheath and hungry lips Solas feels he’s about to go crazy from the pleasure.

He’s almost startled to find her as lost to passion as he is.

Her breathing comes out in short, erratic bursts and her eyes, blown black with lust, stare back unseeing. She’s made him nearly mindless but she looks wrecked, senseless with desire, as though she’s using his cock to bring herself off. Small moans pass her lips whenever she slides down at an angle, touching some perfect spot, but it’s clearly not enough.

“It’s alright, I have you.” Solas promises and one of his hands clutches at her hips, urging her to change the rhythm, to have her go just a bit faster and just that bit deeper, his thumb grazing her nub on each downwards push. "It's alright."

“Please, please…” she keens at every move, squirming against his hold, then howls just as he feels her convulse around him, her molten need pushing against him but barely leaking around; theirs is just too tight a fit.

His arms wrap around her as Malika trembles though her climax, struggling to hold out against the feel of her hot release and the echoes of ecstasy the mark supplies. It’s too much though, the addictive sensation of her in his arms, of being buried inside her, of touching her soul and having his touched in return.

Closing his eyes, he spends himself with a groan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note to thank all you lovely readers. As always, your kudos show me whether you've enjoyed reading this and your comments tell me just how much. :)


	21. Chapter 21

**Epilogue**

Ah, but how this irrepressible desire, this unforeseen possessiveness shatters his plans!

Sister to jealousy and greed, it's insidious. It slips past his defenses in the shared breaths of an early morning kiss, through longing looks shared across late-night campfires and fevered touches of skin on naked skin until he can no more let go of his little dwarf than he can split his soul in half.

There's but one thing to do, he thinks and orders her to stop her foolish quest for freeing the Evanuris. Surely she loves him enough to abandon her scheme to free some possibly insane incarnation of her previous lover. She questions, he argues and their rows start many wild rumors among Skyhold’s servants (for while Solas can ward a room well enough against both sight and sound, his magic doesn’t lend itself to fixing broken furniture, ripped draperies and shattered pottery).

In hindsight, he sees that he’d often revealed too much during these fights. She has a way of getting under his skin just as he gets under hers. Oh, she doesn’t seem to have guessed his infamous moniker but, especially after their foray into the Arbor Wilds, she teases him often enough about his age and station for Solas to believe that she’s guessed enough of the truth to be wary, to despise him for his lies. Yet she doesn’t.

Her jests don't aim to hurt or rip some truth from him that he’s unwilling to reveal, merely to get him as angry or frustrated as she might be feeling in that particular moment (an almost... benign brand of spitefulness all of her Inner Circle has long grown used to).

And how could he have even thought that her constant, deep-rooted obstinacy would somehow skip her love: she proves as stubbornly loyal as she is stubborn in everything else. Perhaps that is part of the reason for their fights about freeing June but that is one issue in which he's unwilling to yield. (One June has already fallen for her charms. Who's to say this other one would not? Solas cannot, will not suffer a rival.)

At last, on the eve of battle, they do reach an accord. Malika will postpone her quest for as long as they are lovers and for as long as Solas does not leave her to ' _pursue whatever dubious plans he’s been making behind the Inquisition’s back_ '.

Possessiveness, lust and affection… Frustration and anger… the breadth of emotions his little lover inspires are a millstone. But it was his Orb that gave her the Anchor, his magic seeping through her veins, his choice to take the little woman for his own. If the feelings are a millstone, it’s one Solas himself has tied around his neck. (And though he’s found this terribly inconvenient plenty of times, he’s yet to truly regret it.)

The bargain is struck. After all, his plans have held for thousands of years, he tells himself, they can hold half a century more.

After Corypheus’ defeat, the dwarven Herald of Andraste vanishes with her elven Fade Advisor. Slowly, in secrecy, Solas’ agents, spread across nations and all manner of organisations, are set to new tasks.

Its goals achieved, Divine Victoria disbands the Inquisition within a year. The human powers breathe easier and resume their own games of politics. It takes them a while to notice that elven servants become scarce and fewer Dalish savages come to trade.

In the far north-western wilds, Solas and Malika set to building a home. And when twenty dwarven craftsmen become fifty, eighty elves somehow become two hundred. Surely he cannot let his lover’s people best his, Solas mentally justifies his actions, even if ‘ _his people_ ’ is a relative term (and a true feeling of kinship is still slow to come). When three hundred dwarves become six hundred, the elves number in the thousands. This game they play until their home becomes a hamlet, the hamlet a town, and the town a city (where their new laws carefully, very carefully grant all citizens the same rights and responsibilities regardless of race).

And while he plays at disgruntlement - for governing a city takes much of their time - Solas is secretly pleased to see so many of their people living in relative peace.

‘ _My Malika won't be here forever._ _Just a while longer_ ’, he tells himself, ‘ _and I can abandon this dream for something real.'_ And if the unspoken words feel terribly bitter... he doesn't have to acknowledge it. But the soul bond has other consequences than just sharing pleasure, sadness or joy.

Eighty years pass and the Lord and Lady of the city are parted by neither sickness nor old age. Indeed, save for a few laugh lines, Solas finds his tiny wife as youthful as she’d been eighty years ago. Perhaps her line is long lived, he tells himself at first. But on her two hundredth birthday, Malika looks no nearer middle age than she had a century ago.

And of course she will not hear of ‘ _stirring up trouble_ ’. “Our pact still stands, Solas, doesn't it?” she’d argue and he’d be forced to agree, making sure that his displeasure is both seen and felt through the bond, both of which his maddening wife ignores with the ease of long practice.

He isn’t truly angry, of course (and rare are the days when he has time to wallow in guilt).

He's the high lord of a growing city hidden through magic from prying eyes. He’s a father thrice over and soon a grandfather if palace rumors about his eldest’s exploits are to be believed. He has a loving wife, caring children, intelligent, studious apprentices and bearable acquaintances.

At night, in his city in the wilds, Solas sleeps easy even under the weight of the Veil.

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to everyone who got this far. I hope you've enjoyed it. :) Virtual hugs to everyone who's left a comment and helped the muse stay with this story for as long as it did.  
> Bye bye!


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